


with a phone call

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-02-27 21:35:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2707613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It begins with a phone call.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	with a phone call

It begins with a phone call. A woman's voice in his ear, saying  _Hello, sexy (The curtain rises)._ Sherlock glances at a pair of white, vintage trainers, and thinks,  _finally._

He solves the case. And the next. And the next. His mind whirs, accelerating from one problem to another, reaching speeds it never has before. This is a  _game,_ pure and simple, and Sherlock's determined to win. 

(He's not sure he will, though.)

Even before he meets him, Sherlock has an undeniable respect for the other man. He's still doesn't know precisely what Moriarty does, but he does know it's clever. And Sherlock likes clever. But more importantly, Moriarty  _stimulates_ him, knows exactly how to arrange the crime so Sherlock's interested, exactly how to manipulate the solution in order to give Sherlock that  _rush,_ that release of endorphins that keeps him going back for more. 

Moriarty knows him. Better than John knows him, better than Mycroft knows him, probably better than he knows himself. He's not sure if that should terrify him or not.

(It doesn't.)

Jim from IT is nothing special. So when he finally  _does_ meet Jim Moriarty, Sherlock is completely astounded (and secretly impressed) by the criminal's acting ability. 

_Jim Moriarty. Hi!_

_Consulting criminal. Brilliant._

Sherlock can see that he and Jim (always Jim in his mind, not Moriarty) are two sides of the same coin - both far too clever for their own good, leagues apart from the world around them. He likes to picture their positions reversed; him as the criminal, weaving a tapestry of crime - the centerpiece of a dark and intricate maze, while Jim the detective pieces the puzzle together, advancing slowly but surely towards the eye of the storm. Nothing would be any different. 

They complement each other in a way he'll never understand, much as he tries to put a name to the easy familiarity. Face to face with his archenemy with a loaded gun between them, Sherlock still feels more at home than at any of those endless Christmas dinners. It's natural. Comfortable, as if he and Jim were molded to fit into these shapes, these shoes. Some would call it destiny. If Sherlock had ever had any regard for the concept (which, obviously, he doesn't), he might have agreed. He prefers "inevitable" - amongst those absolute certainties of day and night, and people and life and death ( _and bills, John would say wryly, but Sherlock doesn't really see the humor in that)_ , somewhere in the realm of science and fact lies Jim, one constant in a world of variables.

And Jim  _understands_ him; he understands the tedium of existence, understands just how dull the world is _._ And... he makes it better. Fills the world with intrigue, mystery, a shadow lurking behind every corner. 

Its intoxicating.

* * *

 

He chases Jim down, catches up to him walking through a busy New York street.

"The Ainsbury murder," he says casually, falling into step beside the criminal. His feet instinctively follow Jim's rhythm, their movements synchronising effortlessly. He knows he's playing with fire, and there is no doubt that Jim will eventually 'burn' him, perhaps even kill him, but Sherlock trusts him to do it right - he won't just shoot him on a busy street.

Jim doesn't miss a beat, nothing to indicate that he's in any way startled by Sherlock's sudden appearance. Perhaps he isn't. "Hmmmmm?" He draws out the note, adds a tint of mocking to the tone. Jim has an incredibly versatile voice, he's noticed - it can jump from light and teasing to low and dangerous between one word and the next. Sherlock wants to make a study of it, pull apart the constantly changing melody until it makes sense to him (because right now it doesn't).

"I know it was you." Sherlock is confident; it's got Moriarty written all over it. His crimes have a particular signature that makes them all the more enticing, a brilliant little twist in them to add a little style and flair. It makes the Game all the more interesting.

Jim laughs, an uncharasterically open, unguarded sound. "Prove it.

Then he's gone.

Sherlock blinks.

* * *

 

He starts receiving texts around June, little things about Jim's day, the people he works with, the jobs he's pulling. Never enough to paint a complete picture, not even enough to connect him to any case Sherlock's working (he wouldn't exactly use  _Moriarty's_ texts on his phone as evidence anyway; what would John think?).

_In Rome this week. Planning to drop by a certain political conference ;) Wish you could see it, this one's completely genius._

_F***ing businessmen. Always trying to screw you over. Do me a favour dear, and never try and stab me in the back. I'd be forced to turn the knife back on you, and that would just be so disappointing, wouldn't it?_

_Shot someone yesterday, just for fun. I'm not one to leap into the fray, usually, but this one warranted a little personal touch._

He never responds. It doesn't seems appropriate to; the texts are just another part of the Game, and Sherlock knows the rules all too well.

* * *

 

They come together (for the first time) in December, after a brilliantly executed murder in Surrey which Sherlock  _knows_  has to be Jim. No one else could ever pull off something so complex, so magnificently interesting.  _There's nothing new under the sun,_ he always says, but Jim seems to challenge that (challenge him) at every turn. 

He's leaving Scotland Yard when he receives a text.

_Did you like my gift?_

What follows are a time and address. Sherlock doesn't think twice, gets into a cab and takes off, energy thrumming beneath his skin. He knows exactly where this will lead, but for once, he doesn't mind.

The address takes him to an apartment block near the city. He doesn't have Jim's apartment number, but he's Sherlock Holmes, and it takes him less than two minutes to find out that there's a  penthouse, and really where else would Jim be? He takes the elevator, wondering exactly what the inside of Jim's apartment would look like. Would it be a window into Jim's mind? A taken apart gun, lying on the kitchen bench? A table covered in papers, designs, blueprints, plans. He wants  _something_  - something that will give him a sense of the genius mind who owns the apartment.

Jim answers the door before Sherlock even knocks. he's dressed in his business attire, and looks impeccable, as always, not a hair out of place.

Jim raises an eyebrow. "Sherlock Holmes," he drawls, low and arrogant. "I'd say I wasn't expecting you, but that would be a complete lie, would it not?" He gestures into the apartment. "Won't you come in, my dear?"

Jim's home (one of many, Sherlock guesses) is nothing and everything he's hoped for. It's almost completely white - the walls, floor, furniture - and very sparse. He can see a dark bookshelf, filled with various publications; a stereo system playing  _Staying Alive;_ an enormous desk in the corner, empty save for a silver laptop. 

It says more about Jim than any apartment Sherlock has devised up in his own mind ever would.

Jim smirks beside him. "Like it?"

Sherlock runs a finger along the nearby wall, wondering who else has been invited up here, been given a taste of Jim's own world. He imagines he's one of very few.

"I do," he says slowly. He turns to face his companion. "So exactly what am I doing here?" He already knows, but he wants to speed things up a bit, wants to see what will happen. 

Jim steps closer, into Sherlock's personal space. If it were anyone else, he would have moved away by now, but this is Jim, and Sherlock's interested. "Just wanted to see you," he grins, lightly brushing his fingers over Sherlock's suit jacket, smoothing it out. "Is that not allowed?"

Sherlock smirks, drawing Jim in. "Really?" They're close now, almost connected, breathing each other's air. He feels giddy, intoxicated. "Is that all you were looking for?"

Jim drags him in. The kiss is rough, more like war than romantic sentiment, but Sherlock wouldn't expect anything less. They grapple for dominance, two starkly opposing forces, and when they break apart, Sherlock can feel Jim's erratic heartbeat, as well as his own. 

Jim smiles, cold and dangerous. "Of course not."

* * *

They collide again and again, all over London. Sometimes they meet in one of Jim's apartments (turns out he owns twenty-seven), sometimes in hotels, restaurants, even at 221b, when John's not home (and even, on one risky occasion, when he is).

Sometimes they linger - talk about various cases they've got going on, the strange little quirks of "normal people", articles they've found intellecually interesting. 

 _A bit not good,_ John would say, but Sherlock doesn't particularly care.

He knows that at some point, he and Jim are going to tear each other apart. It's inevitable, and Sherlock does not fear it. He knows it's only another constant, and Day X is looming over the horizon, a fixed point in time hurtling towards them like a missile.

He and Mycroft plan. They plan for every possibility, and even a few more. There are contingencies for contingencies, and Sherlock  _knows,_ beyond even a shadow of a doubt, that he's going to win, and Jim's going to lose. The Game should feel stale by now, ending revealed, but it doesn't. Sherlock knows he should feel triumphant, feel the rush of another puzzle solved, but he doesn't. It makes him uneasy. It shouldn't be this simple.

At some point, Jim is captured. Sherlock knows about it, he's the one who reveals Jim's location to Mycroft and his men, but it doesn't make it any less frustrating when, all of a sudden, the cases stop. It's like London just stands still, an orchestra waiting for an absentee conductor.  _Now_ the Game feels stale. 

Baskerville is a distraction. He leaves behind the oppressive city air and tries out the country. He could live here, Sherlock surmises. There's something very interesting, very sinister about the countryside. He doesn't think he'd be bored. Sherlock pictures himself retiring, moving to a small cottage out of London, keeping bees. It doesn't seem right. Not while he's still got work to do  _(Not without Jim,_ a small, traitorous corner of his brain suggests, but Sherlock pushes it down, out of sight, out of mind).

When he returns, though, Jim is the first person he visits. 

Mycroft's men have let him go, and Mycroft himself has been in contact; Jim's fed them information, vague contours of plans and hints to his vast, conplex web of intrigue. Not a lot, but perhaps  _just_  enough for them to make something of it.

Jim answers the door before Sherlock even has a chance to knock. He's wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and his eyes are wide and innocent. He gasps in mock surprise.  He titters like an naive (idiotic) housewife and makes half-hearted small talk, but his smirk never quite reaches his eyes. When Sherlock shoves him into the wall, fingers grasping at Jim's collarbone, he doesn't flinch, only adjusts himself so they're eye-to-eye. His gaze turns predatory, and Sherlock watches his face transform from trivial socialite to dangerous criminal. Involuntarily, his hands tighten around Jim's neck. 

"Gonna kill me now, Sherlock?" He taunts, his voice moving to a deeper register than Sherlock's ever heard. It sends chills up his spine. "Go on," he whispers mockingly. _"I dare you."_  

For a moment, Sherlock wonders if he could actually go through with it. Close the gap between his hands, snuff out Jim's life between his fingers. But he knows he could never bring himself to do it, and so does Jim.

Jim, who is always five steps ahead, who plays the game like no one Sherlock's ever met (besides himself, of course), who most likely already has a backup in place-

And who just pushed Sherlock off him and reversed their positions in a mater of seconds, fingers lightly dancing on Sherlock's collarbone. 

"Too slow, honey," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's jaw. 

* * *

 

There's something so delightfully thrilling about being in the same room as Jim. The world seems to bend around him in a way that makes him simultaneously completely invisible, and the centre of attention. Sherlock often finds it difficult to look away, to reorient himself in a room that is all _Jim_.

Sherlock never bothers to tell Jim anything, but Jim never seems to stop talking, offering up tidbits of information as his fingers tap out a rhythm on Sherlock's arm, as he prepares tea and reads the newspaper.

It's those revealing offhand comments that tell Sherlock Jim is hiding something big. 

After he solves the Reichenbach case, he knows it can't be long now. He senses the static electricity in the air, hears the whispers of _The Final Problem_. 

He doesn't see Jim for months, but feels his presence as acutely as if the man were standing right next to him. Something's coming.

Mycroft makes him revise their plan each and every time they meet. They plan and replan, male revision after revision. _Nothing_ can go wrong. There leave no room for error - the plan covers them all. Sherlock makes it his masterpiece. Mycroft enlists dozens of his men.

It's still not enough.

* * *

It ends with a phone call, John's voice in his ear stumbling over _don'ts_ and _Sherlocks,_ Sherlock standing on the edge of St Bart's roof, Jim lying in a pool of blood behind him. He doesn't dare turn around, to witness the deep scarlet spreading across the across the concrete, to lay his eyes upon the gaping hole in the back of Jim's head, to see Jim's lifeless eyes, devoid of their cold fire. Ironically, for all the death and destruction he has seen, perhaps even enjoyed, it is his arch-nemesis' suicide he can't bear to observe. His brain feels numb, still frozen in the split second before Jim shot himself. If he's being honest with himself (and he might as well at this point, there's really no holding on to dignity anymore, is there?), it's as if by turning his back, he's invalidating Jim's death, as though if he kept facing the other way, Jim could somehow sit up, somehow be resurrected, somehow  _not be dead..._

But he is.

Sherlock hangs up the phone. For a split second, he stares out into the city, regarding their war-torn, ravaged playing field. He wonders what John will do. He wonders if Lestrade will do, if Molly will miss him, if Mrs Hudson will rent out the flat to someone else. He thinks of all the people whose lives have been (will be) forever shattered by their Game.

 _Collateral damage, darling,_ Jim whispers in his ear. Sherlock closes his eyes, maps out the landscape before him in his mind. 

He wonders what comes next.

_LAZARUS._

He jumps.

* * *

It ends (and begins) again with a phone call. Mycroft's voice in his ear, saying  _England (who needs me this time)._  Sherlock leans back in his chair, and thinks,  _finally._


End file.
